


Midnight Storms

by Mishka10



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Rain, Thunderstorms, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:20:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26661331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mishka10/pseuds/Mishka10
Summary: He can taste the brewing storm, taste the sparks in the air, the dancing, twirling specks of energy, flicking through the air. Taste the fire in the air.Sharp, bright, dangerous.A thunderstorm, a werewolf (or two) what could possibly go wrong?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Kudos: 21





	Midnight Storms

They are on the edge of a storm.

A raging, violent tempest.

You can feel it in the air, stirred up and swirling around them.

Wind beaten up, churning, spinning directionless and untamed.

It curls around Jaskier’s body, circling him, moving alongside as he walks. Hair rustled, wild, flicking round, whipping against his face, not that he has mind to notice.

His clothes whip around him. Shirt rustling in the wind, coat billowed out around him, tugging and pushing him on. Curled so tightly to his body, ends spiralled out, spun away from his body, twisting and turning in the wind.

Pants whirled around his legs, almost tugging on the skin.

He breaths it in, the energy in the wind, in the air, the sky, spread out above him.

The wonderous, storm kissed, night-time sky, sprawled out above him, wind and beautiful.

It is surprisingly clear right above him.

A dark, a deep, rich, blue tinged sea of black. Speckled with shining stars, swirled with the white whispers of clouds.

Only on the edges can you spot the rest. A deep, threatening red, a deep threatening grey, churning and shifting. Heavy and deep. Dangerous.

A dark midnight sky.

He can taste the brewing storm, taste the sparks in the air, the dancing, twirling specks of energy, flicking through the air. Taste the fire in the air.

Sharp, bright, dangerous.

He can feel it, light against his skin, bright and burning, cold and cutting. Running up his spine, body shivering in response.

Twitching at the cold.

It brushes against his cheeks, rough and coarse against the soft skin.

leaves picked up on the wind, spun around him, carried in the air, twirling around his legs. Flower petals whipped up and scattered, flittering past his face.

A twig catches in his hair, tangled in deep in a matter of seconds, twisted and turned in the wild brown hair.

Numbed fingers struggle to tug it free, pulling on strands, trying to argue free messy knots, nails scrapping against wood.

The world around him is dark. Wild.

A sprawling old graveyard, gnarled and ancient. Scattered with well worn gravestones, strong stone chipped and worn, spider sprawled cracks and covered in moss, clearly no longer cared for.

Trees twist through where they can find a space, demanding roots breaking apart rock even further, pushing aside the efforts of man to tame the land, mark out the last resting place of their fallen fellows.

The trees have no care for such thing. No care for carved rock or tough stone, letting time break it down, push it all aside, returned to the land from which it came.

The remains of old pathways are only just visible, winding through the headstones, a divot in the earth, ground worn away, damage done that not even the wild could fully cover up. Grass and brambles did what they could to reclaim the space, but patches of pathway where still clear, carved too deep for that.

The markers of pathways, walked by men and women now long gone, forgotten along with their faded boot prints.

He looks back, at the twinkling splatter of lights, only just visible on the edges of the horizon. A reassuring reminder of civilisation, of soft beds and other bodies curled up close next to your own, body heavy, belly comfortable and full.

A soft reminder of the everyday, the common moments of life that so often lay under appreciated.

He is almost surprised he doesn’t want to be there. To be wrapped up warm and safe… it sounds soft and kind and pleasant.

But this… here. The energy cracking through the air, burnt and bright on his tongue.

He is alive.

He breathes in a deep breath, feels the cold burn his throat. Here he is alive.

As alive as the world around him.

Nothing is still. Nothing calm or quiet, the world is churning, and he is at the centre of it all. 

A cry echoes out through the darkness, the call of an owl. It sounds like a scream, piercing through the air, curdling the blood, and piecing through flesh to stab at the heart. He swallows, eyes searching the edges of inky blackness, not truly expecting to see anything, but still looking, just in case.

He lets his head tip back, staring up into the clear, vast darkness. Feeling the chill of the air around him, the whip of grass against his legs and just… breathes. Just lets the world exist around him, lets it churn and cry and _exist_ , free of order, free of rules, of man and his needless restraints.

Another cry rings out, closer, not quite human, but not quite animal either. Breaking the stillness in a way the last one hadn’t.

The last scream had fit, he doesn’t know how to explain it but it fit, it belonged, in this wild, open world. it slipped with such ease through the darkness, disorderly order, slotted into a purposefully messy place.

This new cry was… harsh. Wonky and wrong, it tore through the air, ripping through the fabric of the sky, cruel and unnecessary. It did not belong here.

He turns. Gaze dropping from the inky darkness, back to the path before him. lets nagging wind push him onwards, nipping at his heels as he half runs down the incline. Following the remains of the path, weaving through headstones and jumping over twisted roots.

He half stumbles at times, ground crumbling beneath his boots, the wind heavy at his back, helping him along.

He slips more than once, almost sent tumbling, catching himself on the top of gravestones, the soft skin of his hand almost ripped and torn from the move.

Another scream. Loud and… angry. The cry of a horse. Fuck.

There is the opening to a crypt at the base of the incline, hidden from any last sparkling remains of city light. It seems to sit firm in the darkness, sharp yet hidden. Cold stone edges melded with the night. 

He doesn’t want to think of what could be in there. What may emerge, they hadn’t come for the crypt, metal lock still firmly in place on the thick wooden door, but with the beings they encountered that doesn’t necessarily mean-

Another scream from the darkness. Not from the crypt, but from the inky blackness beyond. Wind whips up around him at the cry, as though feeling the harshness of the sound, harshness of the word, torn through the air.

He pushes on, past the crypt, into the blackness. The dark, open blackness.

He meets the rain halfway into the black. Fat, lazy drops, falling down firm and heavy. Cold daggers striking his skin, soaking in deep. Its not enough to be an issue yet, only a slight splattering of rain… but he can hear the crack of thunder on the horizon, sense the drowning sea of a storm brewing on the edges, slowly inching closer.

Another cry, to garbled to even tell if it was ripped from a beast or a horse or… a man.

The world seems to shrink around him, trees cuddled in closer, half grown over headstones, cracking them below the weight of angry, determined roots. Darkness pressing in, world covered by blackness.

He hears Roach before he sees her, the beat of heavy hooves against the ground, kicking up the dirt. There is no site of Geralt, but suddenly out of darkness there is Roach, only meters from him.

She is wild, upset, pawing at the ground, head flicking in annoyance, reins swinging free and loose, near almost tangled in the branches, a concern within itself.

But more worrying is the blood, hard to see but only just obvious, three dark scratches carved into her back, bleeding freely.

He approaches slowly, hands raised, trying not to startle her further. Manages to grab up the reins, untangle them from the woods, starts to calm her down. He rests a soft hand on her neck, a comforting pat as she huffs and snorts against his shoulder, clearly still not pleased.

He lets her grumble, tries to sooth her further, stop the nervous shaking, keep her calm.

She jumps at the crack of a stick under footfall. Geralt stumbling out of the blackness, half falling as he emerges.

Jaskier had thought Roach looked wild… Geralt though…

What skin is visible is an inhuman white, but that is hardly noticeable, hidden beneath the black. The black in his skin, and the black on it.

Blood clung to the Witcher running down in thick rivers, sticking to the skin, falling to splatter against the ground.

He has no way of knowing how much, if any is Geralt’s.

Sharp teeth the only part of him still clean, shining in the little light still offered by a full moon, fighting through the swarming storm clouds. Eyes black. Black pools drinking in everything around them, unreadable and dangerous.

He has seen Geralt on hunts before. Seen the man kill.

But never quite like this.

Never so…

Blood-soaked and dangerous.

A chill runs along his spine, at the site. A shiver of cold and… fear?

He has never feared the Witcher before. But he can’t deny it, the touch of it, cold on his skin, blood chilled.

Before him Roach has stilled under his hand. 

Then Geralt a stumbling, uneven step forward, head half slumped, blood dripping from his fingertips and all thoughts of fear are forgotten.

Jaskier abandons the horse, still as she is, diving over to catch Geralt bust he can. He ducks below a firm arm, not sure how much he is actually doing to keep the Witcher steady, hold him up, be he will be dammed if he doesn’t at least try.

Jaskier runs a hand along Geralt’s chest, finding the tears in the cloth, the blood pouring out, at least some of it was his then. The wounds are deep, carved through flesh, thick leather torn through, ripped open.

He worries at the edge of the damage, the frayed leather, broken and soaked in blood, “what happened?”

Geralt grunts. “Werewolf.” The word is as rough as the man looks, throat gravely, sound low, he has to lean in to catch it, lean in close.

He is so focused on the heavy weight of the Witcher, the blood sliding down, splattering against his neck, he almost misses the crunch of footsteps, heavy, fast and frantic, tearing across the ground.

The beast bursts free of the trees. It is big. Wild, sharp teeth barred, fur matted, tangled, tinged with blood, a snarling, hellish mass of a being.

Horrifically unhuman. 

“…two werewolves.” Geralt slurs out, always ever so helpful.

The creature swings, sharp claws flinging past his face, and thank fuck Geralt still has some level of mind left, shoving Jaskier to the side, to the ground, out of the way of sharp and piercing claws.

He lands with a cry, hand sinking into dirt, Geralt shouts as well, claws sinking deep into already damaged flesh.

Behind him Roach screams head tossed back in a frensy, hooves beating the ground.

From above the sky screams, thunder cracking across the sky, carving through it.

And before him, the beast _roars._

It is a broken sound. Raw and cold and cruel. There is something about it, something… _wrong._ In that sharp, dangerous sound. Ripped from the throat of its master, tearing through the air.

Something about it is not right.

It does not belong.

It rings out, so loud, so strong. Never ending, a nightmare, sharp and painful, slicing into his ears.

Then Geralt swings. A knife Jaskier hadn’t even been aware of sliding up, into a thick shoulder, slicing through flesh. The beast’s scream changes at that. From an angry, vicious roar to something awful. something pained. The scream of a wounded, broken animal, torn from a still almost human throat.

It screams again, yanking back, swinging again. Geralt ducks this time, ducks around the claws and blood and pain, sharp nails only just hitting the edge of thick leather, tearing it further, one shoulder pad almost torn clean off.

Geralt grunts at that, scrabbles up to try and reclaim his knife from where it lays, still buried deep in the beast’s shoulder, uncomfortably hard to reach, slick with blood.

He manages to get a grip on the handle, only just. Manages to grab hold of it, slippery as it is, grab hold and hang on tight. Not quite managing to pull it out yet, but at least hold on as the beast throws itself back.

Brings Geralt with him now, tugged up on tiptoes, struggling to remain his grip.

He sets his feet firm. Holds firm, holds steady, and lets his weight drop. Drags his body down, his hand, knife in tow, slicing through flesh. Carving in deep. Carving through thick fur. Rough skin and soft flesh.

Until it strikes bone. Blade finally paused, once again stuck fast.

The creature roars, head thrusts forward, teeth snapping, inches from his neck when he only just manages to duck aside at the last second, momentarily abandoning the hilt of the knife in favour of keeping his neck in one piece.

It is hard to keep his footing, boots slip against the slick ground, the problem only getting worse with each passing moment, the rain only getting worse the longer they stand there, struggling.

Lacking a blade easily on hand he uses a fist instead, driven up sharply, smashed into the beast’s nose, hard enough to send it reeling back, unsettled if nothing else. It growls, teeth snapping, sharp and pointed, anger in the air. 

He pushes forward, after the creature, manages to get a hand back on the knife, tug it back, blade refusing to budge, stuck fast.

The beast screams at his attempt, yanking itself back, away and angry. He manages to hold onto the knife, pull it one way as the creature pulls the other, freed from bone. Freed from flesh, for a moment if nothing else.

He doesn’t let the moment last any longer than needed. Swings the blade up, settling it deep into the beast’s neck, cutting off the cries right at the source. Drags the blade through, letting blood rain down, mixing with the downfall pouring from the sky. Drowning him, dowsing him in red. Sticky and sweet.

Geralt pushes back, shoves off the still warm corpse, lets it fall aside, into the mud. Sunk in, splattered up and messy.

He pulls in a deep lungful of air, head tilted up, letting the rain pour down on his face. Clear free the blood from his eyes, let him breath.

He blinks the water free from his vision.

Gaze lands of Jaskier, half coated in mud himself, hand tangled in Roach’s reins, keeping her from running, face half relieved, half panicked, as though unsure of how to feel, how to be. Geralt takes a half-shaken step forward, boots sinking into the mud, aware of the pull from his shoulder.

The slide of damaged ribs, clicking against each other, shifting as they shouldn’t.

Jaskier darts forward, tugging him up once again, holding him steady, helping pull him back, keep him up and right. Geralt groans, lets his weight slump down, lets Jaskier carry part of the burden, if he is willing.

Jaskier takes the weight with ease, more than willing to help. He pulls the reins from Jaskier’s hands, no intention to ride, not with cracked ribs needing to heal, with Roach bleeding of her own accord.

No they are in for a long walk back, slick with mud, rain only getting worse as it goes. 

Jaskier wraps an arm around the Witcher, holding him tight. He presses back, feeling the warmth, the strong body pressed against him. Not minding the blood, spreading, staining Jaskier’s clothes, dripping down, onto the man’s skin. 

As the wind picks up around them, they stand firm and solid, keeping each other moving, feeling the world turn and screams around them. Rain pouring down, sky black, raging around them, energy thick in the air.

A wild, wondrous churning mess.

With them at the centre, bloody, beaten but alive.

So so very alive. Existing, within the rain and the wind and the world, roaring against their skin. 

**Author's Note:**

> life is being... a time right now, so have just... too many words about the weather.


End file.
